“Wesley,” she says sweetly, without looking over her shoulder, “can you help Rex?”
“Mastiff,” he says automatically.
“Good!” It is a short, sharp sound, almost an explosion of delight. She is so happy that her happiness fills the room.
Rex, though, had not noticed the boy, who had come partway down the stairs one moonshiney night. It had taken all of his concentration on the markings, and he had neither smelled nor heard Wesley on the stairs. Rex wagged and wiggled closer, radiating relief and happiness, licking the hand that held the book, and listening carefully now.
Amy continued, “Wesley, can you come down and help your friend? Can you come down and help Rex?”
“Sure.” Wesley makes his way to the sofa and begins to read tonelessly. “The Wolf would gladly have supped off him but saw that first there would be a great fight, for which he was not prepared, and so he bid the dog good night very humbly. ‘It would be very easy for you,’ said the Mastiff, ‘to get as fat as I am, if you liked. Quit this forest where you and your kind live so wretchedly and often die of hunger. Follow me, and you shall fare much better.’”
There is a tinkling of ice cubes from the kitchen and then Roger’s tired voice. “This is ridiculous. It isn’t helping either one of them. The whole story … it’s far too elementary for Wesley, and—”
“Just be patient. I know what I’m doing.”
“Yeah? Well, that dog gets one more chance, and that’s it. You can handle it any way you want. But that’s it.” There is the sound of a door opening, and Roger’s voice becomes fainter. “I’ll be outside cleaning up. Somebody turned over the damn garbage cans again.”
The door slams, and Amy pats both Wesley and Rex. “Wes, will you continue please.”
Wesley thinks of the words as chords in a rather elementary composition. He plays them quickly, effortlessly. “’What shall I have to do,’ said the Wolf. ‘Almost nothing,’ answered the Dog; ‘only chase away the beggars and fawn upon the folks of the house.’ The Wolf, at the thought of so much comfort, almost shed tears of joy. They trotted off together, but as they went along the Wolf noticed a bare mark on the Dog’s neck. ‘What is that mark?’ said he. ‘Oh nothing,’ said the Dog.”
It’s all Amy can take of such drivel. She interrupts, thinking that perhaps she should have chosen a more modern story. “Thank you, Wesley. Maybe we can let Rex finish. Rex, can you finish for us? Can you read, Rex?”
Rex hesitates, then continues. “’Nothing?’ urged the Wolf. ‘The merest tri—trifle,’ answered the Dog. ‘It is the mark of the collar where I am tied up at night.’ ‘Tied up!’ ex … exclaimed the Wolf. ‘You cannot run as you please?’ ‘Not always,’ said the Mastiff, ‘but what does it matter?’ ‘It matters to me,’ re … rejoined the Wolf; and, leaping away, he ran once more to his native forest.”
“Gooood! Good boy.” Amy pats the head and leans back against the sofa, closing her eyes and massaging her temple. She sighs. “Now, Rex. Tell me, what does that story mean to you?”
“Story?”
“Yes. What does it mean to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try hard. It’s important.”
“Try, Rex,” says Wesley. There is quick comprehension in his words, an understanding of consequences. “Try really hard. Please, Rex.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. I’m sad now that you don’t know what to think, Rex. I’m very sad.” Her voice is sweet and caring.
“Rex, try really hard.”
“I was hoping you would do better this time,” she says. “But now … I’m sorry, Rex, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay outside for awhile. I’m afraid you won’t be able to spend the night in Wesley’s room until you’re able to do better.”
“Mom, no.”
“Here, Rex. Come along, boy.”
“No, Mom, please.”
There have been troubling developments since the death of their first son.
Sometimes there are whimpering sounds at night.
Urine stains on the carpet.
They have found unidentifiable tracks, dried mud, in several rooms of the house.
And savagely ripped articles of clothing left where someone will be sure to find them.
In the mornings Amy showers while Roger sleeps, then stands dripping in the doorway, shivering and staring at the recumbent form, the near stranger in her bed. Finally toweling herself, wrapping the towel around her body, and tucking one corner between her breasts, she steps before the mirror, standing where she can still see him and take in his every breath.
She begins brushing her hair with brisk, painful strokes that make her face flinch and set her jaw tightly shut.
But he is no longer asleep. And when he speaks, it sounds like the continuation of an old argument. His voice is tired. “Now what?”
“You’re the one who wanted another child.”
“I wanted a family. You wanted a child.”
“Oh?” she replies flatly. “This is all my doing now?”
“I didn’t say that.” Their words have no more passion than the words of lawyers. “I’m just saying,” Roger continues, “I’m just saying what do we do now? That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m thirty-seven years old, Roger. Life has a way of closing in, you know?”
She dresses silently. In the hall mirror she ties the crème bow and then fluffs the ruffles on the front of her blouse. It is a pale silk blouse that contrasts sharply with the dark tan of her face. The effect is flattering, feminine, a look that will surprise both colleagues and students when she arrives on campus. They will stare and wonder if they have been misreading her after all.
Amy slips into the navy pumps and descends, throwing herself into the Journal with barely a good morning to Mrs. Dilettuso. By the time he joins her at the table, she has worked her way through the paper and moved on to a magazine. “I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t you quit your job and stay home with him? Why don’t you drive him to Little League and buy ice cream for the team?”
“Maybe I will,” he says.
“Maybe you’d last a week. What do you want me to say, Roger? That this place needs a mommy? Maybe I should flush my career.”
“No, I don’t want you to say that. I don’t know what I want you to say.”
She avoids his glimpses.
They take their breakfast like communion. Bagels and jelly and juice.
Roger makes himself content with the early sun and the vista outside the breakfast room windows. The woods seem to draw him. It is a room full of white wicker furniture and uncertainty.
Toward the end Rex reaches them. Saves them perhaps. It begins with a clamor at the kitchen door, a frantic scratching to get out. And as soon as Roger opens the door, Rex bolts, eager to get at something lying just outside. There on the terrace is a legless corpse, covered with dirt and decay. It is a chunk of cloth barely recognizable as the rag doll it used to be. Rex takes hold with his teeth, the stuffing spilling out of his mouth like red and gray entrails, and Roger shivers, feels the food rising in his stomach. He barely has time to put out his foot and stop the crazy dog from dragging the thing into the kitchen.
Amy half turns from the refrigerator. “What is it? What’s got him so excited?”
“It’s Timmy,” he says.
At first Wesley thinks of fairy tales, of goblins and ghosts, evil stepmothers and fathers who murder their sons, trolls burying small soft bodies in deep forest. And roots like crawling fingers that go down fast. It’s like one of the stories from the book, but soon real patches of sunlight and the real warmth of afternoon banish dark thoughts. And Rex frolics. And they go walking, the three of them—Wesley, Roger, and Rex.
When the path fades, they follow a stream that trickles through their forest, turning with no regard for the straight and crooked of human perception. It is just a stream. After a time they go creekwalking. And when Rex at last plops belly do
wn, head between his paws upon a sandbank, Roger and Wes practice construction. They make a dam of stones and sticks and creek clay. Then a waterfall. Then a bridge. And before long they cut sturdy branches for walking sticks and again go clambering over roots and rocks, working their way upstream for another hour or more into cooler, clearer water. Finally resting at a pool where water striders skate on the stretched-tight surface of late afternoon, finishing their snacks where the foliage is rubbery green and thick.
While they are walking and exploring, the stream begins to unravel imperceptibly, dividing itself, turning underground at one place and thinning to dribbles and drops in another. So they follow the dog, who scrambles thoughtlessly over moss boulders and through shadows, rips up a hillside of leaves, panting at the crest, the three of them panting and flopping together. And realizing by degrees that they are lost.
“This is great,” says Roger. Then after a few breaths, “Reminds me of when I was a kid.”
“You lived here?” The relief is audible in Wesley’s voice.
“Naw. Just, you know, fooling around in the woods, doing guy stuff. I never knew all this was back here until old Rex”—he scratches Rex’s ears—“showed us. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“How are we going to get back?” says Wesley.
Roger snaps a twig and throws both pieces. Rex pricks up his ears momentarily, sniffs, and begins rooting among the leaves. “Look at him. Not worried a bit, not losing a moment. That’s the way we’re going to be from now on. I promise.”
“Does he know the way back?”
“This is great,” Roger insists. “You can see the whole world from up here. Those houses look like mushrooms, don’t they?”
“Is one of them our house?”
“I don’t think so. Our house is probably over—that direction. Sort of that way. Don’t worry, kiddo, all we got to do is find that creek again, right? Then follow the creek.”
“I think it’s going to be dark soon.”
“You worry too much, son. Gotta learn to trust your instincts. Here, watch this. Yo, Rex! Rex! Come on, fella. Come here, boy. Rex! There, good boy. Take us on down to that creek, big fella. Take us on home.”
Rex leads them downward through an arbor of winter jasmine as thick as vine-woven baskets. The sudden familiarity of the place, its quilt of curling leaves and its high canopy, conjure memories in Roger, leaving him momentarily confused, tilting and twirling with his thoughts. Looking up, he sees breaking buds of bright yellow that remind him of fireflies and summer evenings in the backyard of a house that was neither vast nor imposing. He smells hamburgers, hears his father and uncles laughing through crude stories, doing different voices and acting out the parts without even standing up. Remembers and returns to the present, where they hurry on, swishing through the leaves, following the dog in elaborate circles.
It is Wesley who notices the temperature dropping, the gathering darkness. Wesley who finds himself wishing for a trail of bread crumbs or a string to mark the way. Who notices Roger glancing furtively at his watch, and who thinks again of fairy tales.
They help each other over a fallen tree, then climb a small incline to get their bearings once more, and then, shrugging, follow Rex.
But it is Roger who realizes where they have arrived at last, who smells the jasmine and recognizes the dark-woven bower. And who understands that there will be no fireflies, no warm summer breeze. This time they drop down into the humus exhausted. And a familiar feeling, from all those years ago, washes over Roger’s face and gathers in the corners of his eyes. He can’t think of what to do, and perhaps for lack of a better thing he unbuttons the flannel shirt with shaking hands and wraps the boy in its warmth. “Jesus,” he mutters to no one in particular, “what are we going to do now?”
“Dig,” says Rex. “Dig.”
In the dark of early morning Amy stands in a stinging spray that cannot wash away her fear. Even after she’s wrapped herself in the silk robe, tied the knot with harsh jerks, she cannot stop shivering, like a diver anticipating not the cold plunge itself but the rocks just beneath the surface. So she goes walking, delicately, like a ghost, or like someone afraid of ghosts, to the round portal, where she brushes her hair and looks out upon a thousand shades of black. Afraid that any sudden movement might make her disappear.
A breezy ripple running through the grass reminds her of one summer spent in Scotland. Of Roger, ridiculous, staring out over Loch Ness at late evening, every day for a week, fully expecting something to emerge. And then, of course, losing faith. Thinking then and again now in the dim present, how like him. How like a man. So she brushes with the stiff strong brush, drawing it through her tangles with slow determination, almost welcoming pain. And in the entire house there is only the one light burning.
Until gradually she realizes what has happened.
Always a coward, just strong enough to steal, he’s taken the boy and left.
Downstairs there’ll be a note. The papers will come by Federal Express. Then he’ll make an issue of everything in court, though he doesn’t really want custody. He simply wants the power to bargain. He wants a clean break, a red sports convertible, a blonde girlfriend, an amicable divorce. Anything to make me hurt.
But by God I will keep this house, this one window where I can see with telescopic sight past the fraudulent lights below and the pathetic patterns of all their little lives. So that when she begins to cry, the tears are indistinguishable from droplets trickling off the handle of a brush held in her shaking hand. And at first she does not hear the sound at all.
There is a faint clicking of toenails across the tile floor below, a phantom movement in the kitchen, shuffling perhaps, which draws her down the stairs like someone already dead. Not even frightened anymore. Not even curious about what form the horror will take this time. Just drawn.
Almost sleepwalking now, with slow determination and only a vague sense of unreality, she turns the corner and flicks on the light, and they whirl from the vicinity of the refrigerator.
“We camped out!” Wesley screams.
They are pale and ragged, hollow eyed, covered with dirt and leaves. Newly dug from some grave.
She gasps, clutches the robe, and backs herself against the wall. They have filthy, hanging hair. Ragged nails and bloody fingers. Roger’s eyes are a maze of broken capillaries, swollen flesh to the temples; his face is a chaos of stubble, scratches, and scrapes.
“I camped out!” he shouts again. “With Dad and Rex all night! We did it! We found the best place in the world and made a hole. And Rex kept us warm. All night!”
“Roger?”
“I don’t know, I need … coffee, something.”
“We told stories! We cuddled up with Rex under the leaves.”
“Dear God. Are you hurt? Are you … are you okay? Look at you. Look at your clothes.”
“I need something, I … a hot bath maybe. Some breakfast.”
Amy drops the brush, begins to undress them, stops to wipe a cut, to pick leaves from Wesley’s hair. Scolds and cries, the back of one hand pressed to her lips. Jerks their filthy clothing away and makes a pile before shooing them upstairs to steaming hot water and antiseptic. She hunts out clean towels and underwear. Pours forth a breathless litany of questions and recriminations. What in God’s name was he trying to prove? Alone with a child, no camping equipment, no precautions of any sort. When you could have frozen to death. Letting that dog back in the house like this. Ticks and lice. People have died for God’s sake. There has to be a rational explanation. Roger. Roger, what in God’s name were you thinking? What was going on inside your mind?
“Nothing,” he says. “I just … I don’t know.”
She hovers, waiting for an explanation that never comes.
Overturns a flower arrangement on one of her trips down the stairs, looking for clean socks perhaps or fabric softener or something, which falls from her mind as soon as she sees the new thing. It stops her, leaves her breathless one last time,
like the magician’s grand finale. And she, like the beautiful assistant, takes it up in her hand and holds forth the wonder. Across the seat of her chair in the kitchen, someone has left her a sprig of winter jasmine, as thin and ragged as honeysuckle, as yellow and bright as a star.
Food Is Fuel
1
In the tale of the Japanese magician, the year is 1939, and the nightclub is a renovated mansion called The Oasis. It’s owned by Robert Hassard. The opening scene has Robert gliding from table to table, greeting his guests like an election-year politician, and it’s a comforting moment. The men are in tuxedos. The women, after they have been undraped, are in a profusion of sequins and ostrich feathers. They glimmer and shine in spite of the freezing rain outside, and soon everyone has been warmed by the orchestra’s own rendition of Tommy Dorsey’s “Little White Lies.” There’s polished brass everywhere you turn. Leaded crystal and white gloves. In fact, the only detail that seems out of place in this part of the story is the one involving the cocktail waitresses. The girls of The Oasis wear tight satin shorts and white satin blouses, and they go wiggling between the tables with a sensuality not ordinarily associated with the thirties. Still, it’s the year of Gone with the Wind. Two years since the Hindenburg disaster. And anything seems possible. There are even rumors that Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey are getting back together.
2
The orchestra swings into “Beale Street Blues” just as Robert passes a darkened table in one of the alcoves. It is of course my table, and he notices me because I am the author and my sudden appearance has given him a start. So naturally Robert hesitates, but at last he extends a soft, unformed hand. “Jack,” he manages to say, “how are you?”
“Fine, Robert. How’s business?”
“Great. Really great. What are you doing here?” Though he knows very well what is happening.
He knows because the young woman with me is roughly half my age—much thinner than she would be in an ordinary story—with a wide, sensuous mouth and dark hair done in a style that Robert has never seen before. She looks altogether too fragile to bear the weight she will be asked to bear over the next few pages, like one of those Polish refugees we keep seeing in the newsreels. Her dark eyes have a distance about them that frightens Robert since he knows I’ve brought her here for sex, as I’ve done in earlier stories, though he himself cannot imagine making love to anything so frail.
The Imaginary Lives of Mechanical Men Page 5
